Dear Someone
by upturned-octipii
Summary: A semi-smutty one shot. Peter finds something rather interesting in a box full of items from Carla's childhood.


Two years they had been married. Two happy years.

It was a cold November night in Manchester and Carla and Peter were packing all their belongings into boxes to prepare for their move the next day. Carla was 8 months pregnant with a little girl and both, her and Peter were over the moon. Over the past year and a half they had tried numerous times to conceive, failing each time, until at last they got a positive result on a test.

" _You okay Car'?_ " Peter asked noticing his wife suddenly stop rummaging through boxes and freeze against the kitchen unit. Looking up she put on her best smile and said the first thing that came to her head.

" _Yeah, yeah. The baby's just kicking.. A lot, that's all"_ she lied shuffling away from the box in a desperate attempt to stop Peter seeing what was inside. The memories still hurt, maybe in the future she would tell him, but right now was not the time or place.

" _You've been on your feet all day. I'm not surprised you're getting uncomfy. I should of told you to stop a lot earlier, I'm sorry. Go sit down and I'll make you some food"_ He insisted, walking over to wrap his arms around her waist.

" _Peter I'm fine, hones-_ " she began but was interrupted mid-sentence as Peter told her otherwise, the promise of a foot rub winning her over. Smiling to himself, he watched as his wife waddled over to the couch and slumped down.

" _Cheese toastie okay?_ " He called over, second guessing her sudden craving for the toasties. Turning to head into the kitchen, he quickly caught attention of the photos scattered in the box Carla was previously looking though. Still smiling he grabbed a pile of them out, and looked through each individual one, marvelled at the sight of baby Carla. In all his years of knowing her, never once had she mentioned any of her childhood life and he began to wonder why.

" _You were a beautiful baby Car, you never mention your childhood, why not? One things for sure if I looked this cute as a young one, the house would be covered in photos._ " He began, not giving much thought as too why she never spoke of her younger years.

Sighing Carla shifted on the couch to look at him. Yep he'd found them, the photos she never wished to see again. And now he'd found them, she knew he wouldn't shut up about it.

" _Cause there's n'ought much to say is there? I grew up on the worst estate in Manchester with a drug addict as a mother and a part-time dad. I say part-time try maybe a once a year dad, but don't worry I still had plenty of male influence. My mum had a new bloke near enough every week, some got a little to close for comfort, but yah know that's how life is down those parts."_ She replied, quickly glancing back down to her magazine, attempting to hide any emotion that came with the memories.

" _Car' I'm sure yah don't mean that. I mean yah look so happy in these!"_

 _"Smiles can be very misleading Barlow_ " She muttered still not glancing up from her magazine.

Sensing his wife's uneasiness with the whole subject, Peter decided to try taking a softer approach. Walking over he crouched down and leant forward to soothingly kiss the back of her neck, knowing these kisses sent her wild.

" _Why don't we go to bed and look through that box together. You can tell me bits about your childhood, and I'll tell you some about mine. And if you don't want to… Tell me your tired and we can stop. I don't want you being shattered for tomorrow."_ He kindly suggested, knowing Carla's chances of putting up a fight were fairly limited now the words 'bed' and 'together' were involved. Sighing in reluctance, Carla glanced up from her magazine to look at him.

" _Mm I s'pose I could agree, if that promise of a foot rub still stands.."_

Smirking, Peter knew he had won over his wife.. Once again.

" _Ay course it does love, c'mon"_

* * *

They sat in their bed together, the old battered box in the middle of the bed.

" _Can I read it..?_ " Peter asked. A big grin was plastered across his face as he waved a folded sheet of stained paper around.

" _Why? What does it say?_ " She asked reaching for his hand to stop him frantically waving it through the air.

"' _Dear someone in my future'. Please Car'._." He begged before she could reach for the paper herself. Carla sighed, looking at him. She had vague memories of writing the offending article when she was a lot younger as part of a stupid initiative set up by her Primary school in that thinking about the future would inspire the many less fortunate kids that attended the school.

" _Go on. If it really means that much to ya_ "

Peter unfolded the piece of crumpled paper, smiling as he did so.

 _Hi, I guess._

 _This I supposed to be to you, a important figure in my future, so I suppose I won't need to introduce myself.. Well then again ya could be a bloke and from me mam's many men I've learn ya's don't remember names, yous tend to remember us birds by how we do in bed. Anyway I'm Carla Donovan and right now I'm ten years old. I live in a scabby council house with me mam, me stupid toad of a brother – Rob and usually one of me mam's male 'friends' though I know they aren't just friends 'cause friends don't make that much noise at night. Me an' Rob co-own a fish called M.C (Rob named it after my best friend Michelle Connor 'cause he fancies her) and she stays in an' old gigantic bong my dad used't own until he got a new one. He duck-taped one of the openings an' gave it to us for a Christmas present._

 _My dad doesn't live with us which I'm upset about. Mam's male friends aren't that nice't me an' Rob. They get angry a lot and always give us a smack – sometimes I don't know what for. Our Dad would never do that, he was always 'appy but said he couldn't live with our mam any longer, the old bitch was driving him crazy he said once and left. I don't blame him, mam's driving me crazy too. She nearly as worse as the men she brings back. Me mam always takes these little white pills that make her go crazy. She started hitting me with her old trainer last night an' calling me all sort of names 'cause I wouldn't eat my tea. She always calls me names, even when she hasn't taken any white pills. She calls me stupid and pathetic and always tell me't story of how she wished she had me killed as a baby – Abortion I think it's called. I'm starting to think she might be right though. I am stupid, I can't do Maths for the life of me and I'm in the lowest set for every other subject in school. Other kids pick on me sometimes, maybe that means I'm pathetic. Like the other day I was playin' in the park with Michelle and these boys from my class pulled my trousers down and laughed when they noticed I was wearing the same pair of underpants as I was at gym (Me mam rarely does the laundry.) and now they keep calling me names like 'Disgusting Donovan'. It was really embarrassing, Paul, Michelle's older brother was there and I sort of have a crush on him. But he would never date me - no one ever will. No matter how hard I hope I feel nobody will ever love me, not love like you see in romantic films or how the happy couples you see in the city feel about each other._

Peter placed the letter down on the bedside table beside him. The ink had faded from then on deeming the rest unreadable. He turned on his side to face her. She was now fast asleep, sprawled out across the mattress, her now rather large bump taking up the majority of the bed. Quickly he stacked the scattered items from the box, back inside and placed in on the floor.

Lying down beside her he wrapped the blanket around her body and smiled.

 _"I love you – even more than the people on romantic films or the happy people you see in the city feel about each other."_


End file.
